


A Man's World

by pottedmeat (myaso)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Dark, F/M, Feeding Kink, Health problems, Immobility, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Stuffing, VERY large weight gain, Weight Gain, obese, unspecified gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 03:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16610768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myaso/pseuds/pottedmeat
Summary: Danse is indistinguishable from a human man, in every way- including some that his creators probably didn't anticipate. Or, "massively obese Danse x gleeful feeder Sole Survivor".





	A Man's World

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS DARK. PLEASE TURN BACK IF YOU AREN'T INTERESTED IN THIS. Contains health problems (diabetes, etc), huge weight gain/immobility, and probably some sadism. This is entirely consensual, though, if you were worried about that!
> 
> (BTW, if it's not your thing...leave a passing kudos, maybe? Thanks, haha.)

Danse was, truly, indistinguishable from a human man.

He ate like a man, slept like a man, went to the bathroom like a man. He followed all of the same rules as your own human anatomy, really no more resilient than you; it was humbling, really, to see him struggle a bit after the sedentary exile that you had 'helped' him into (read: you had locked him in a bunker until you 'figured out' the problem of Elder Maxson), but the feeling that followed that was far and away from  _humble_. No, you felt excitement- greed, even- when you watched his softening arms struggle and falter against his dumb bells, watched the muscles of his calves actually jiggle a bit as he did jumping jacks. He had never had the space to, not for the 6 months that you'd had him locked away.

You had kissed him, running a hand through his hair, feeling his oh so real stubble and looking into the glint of his eyes. He had been the one to apologize to  _you_ , for eating a bit more of his stashed surplus of food than you'd planned for him to by that point, and you had grabbed his face harder and tugged him into the kiss. He was as oblivious as any good man was, as rare as those were to find out in the wastes.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Now, he was as eager as ever, jumping like a trained dog to whatever task you gave him. You didn't even have to order him around- just point him in a direction, and there he went with his head held high. It was perhaps an ill fitting metaphor, at least today.

Danse mumbled a noise that could have been a 'yes, thank you', but you didn't push. Instead, you watched the thick, heavy swell of his cheeks start to flush more as he exerted himself, making a veritable exercise out of shoving mashed potatoes into his mouth. He had managed to cram enough in that it was starting to spill out of his plump lips again, going down his many chins and onto- and, of course,  _into_ \- his many folds of neck flab. You pet his head, and he made another muffled noise, before shoving his face further into the bowl.

You had worried in the beginning that he would face the adverse effects of human obesity, as well, but he had seemed unconcerned: a stoic face for his sensitive lover. Oh, what a front you could both put up. You had kept the act up, one of concern and kindness, even as your tastes had shifted, and you began to crave seeing his health fail. He was there, finally, on the stoop of abyss: diabetes, heart failure, lymphedema, even more all awaited him below, and all it would take was the gentlest push. As you watched him take a break to pant and wheeze, visibly struggling without his usual oxygen cannula that had become such a fixture of his face, the stoop in your mind started to morph into something more of a swamp- less of an edge to fall off of, and more of a sticky, messy destination that Danse had already found himself slogging through.

You started to grab things off of the beside table. Danse's eyes tried to follow you, then gave up; he wasn't quite yet having the blurred vision that would no doubt ensnare him soon, but rather, he was just too plain fatigued to bother. While you finished gathering supplies, you took a cursory look at the scale's always-on display beside the bed (hey, had to make use of the Institute's goodies  _somehow_ , right?).

"Oh,  _wow_ ," You could hardly contain your excitement, but you had to. It was so much better when he had to guess. "You're getting up there, big boy!"

Danse moaned as you jiggled his belly, sore skin rubbing together and chafing once more. Cleaning him had become such an ordeal, and while you did your best, there were some battles that you just couldn't win- namely, the persistent rash along his deep belly and inner thigh folds. You turned the jiggling to a light pat, and he seemed to relax, albeit slowly. His massive, tree trunk legs were an entirely different mess of their own, so sore and so swollen that he couldn't even dream of moving them. You had to lather them in lotion daily, even wrapping them when the lymphedema there got bad enough. It was spreading up his thighs, too, making those folds all the more difficult to get deep into. Danse belched, breaking you out of your thoughts. You expected a muffled, half incoherent question, but none came- odd, for such a talkative man.

Your heart fluttered as you realized just  _why_ he was silent, and you rushed to finish gathering his medications. You loved to drag it out, but you didn't want him actually dying on you; no, you loved him, and he still loved you, even knowing how badly you had ruined him. He would never recover from this, even if he miraculously lost the weight and managed to curb the swelling in his legs. The damage to his heart, his lungs, his arteries, his eyes his everything- that had all been done, and he would suffer the consequences of it forever. You enjoyed caring for all of his old and new health problems as they grew worse or, respectively, emerged- and he seemed to enjoy it, too.

Sliding the needle of his insulin shot into the softest part of his belly, you shot him up with enough insulin to sending someone with normal blood sugar into a coma, but it was all that kept him going. He groaned, obviously still feeling his head pound from an incoming blood sugar crisis. Had it been the cake he'd had before this? No, no, it was probably the cupcakes...or the pies, or the sugar bombs, or...Danse groaned again, and you started to pop his pills into his mouth for him, tilting his head back to make him swallow it down with only the potatoes as lubricant.

"Good boy."

" _Mmmf_."

His eyes were going crossed, and he was sweating. He didn't seem interested in eating anymore, and-  _he was groping at his arm_. You were only briefly ashamed of the arousal that you felt at that, taking a slow and leisurely walk across the room to grab an emergency stimpak, to be administered right into his clogged and failing heart. In your time, this might have been a death sentence, especially multiple heart attacks- but, thanks to you, this would be Danse's sixth (and counting). That was as far as you were willing to go to 'break the realism', so to speak, pretending that your partner was still just a normal man. You could probably splurge for the not-even-experimental-anymore stimpak that you'd originally ordered to be created, a veritable fat blaster that would not only clear his arteries but also permanently improve the strength of his heart. You could have given him  _all_ of the pills that he needed, and on time, instead of some designed specifically to make him thirstier and even more disoriented.

You loved all of the human things that Danse's body could do, and who were you to rob him of the chance to experience it?

 


End file.
